Left, uncredited image [maybe by photographer Hanns Sohm?], from a performance by Nam June Paik with Charlotte Moorman, TV Cello, 1971. Via. More. Right, cropped photograph by Yoshihiro Tatsuki, Emi Aoki, 1970. Via. More.
Fette Sans, Untitled, from the series Silent March, 2013.
Left, Louise Bourgeois, Untitled, no. 31 of 34, from the illustrated book, Ode à l’oubli, 2002, Fabric collage, page: 29.8 x 33 cm, unique. Via. More. Right, photograph by Zachary Norman, Cloaking Device, from Deliberate Operation, 2013. Via.
Walt Kuhn, excerpt from an unsent letter to Vera Spier Kuhn, October 24, 1912.
Fette Sans, Untitled, 2014.
Why should I meet a second person, I may guess who, But I think it’s not a good Idea. I feel myself not representable to unknown persons. Nearly not the known ones.
It’s a strange business, speaking for yourself, in your own name, because it doesn’t at all come with seeing yourself as an ego or a person or a subject. Individuals find a real name for themselves, rather, only through the harshest exercise in depersonalization, by opening themselves up to the multiplicities everywhere within them, to the intensities running through them. A name as the direct awareness of such intensive multiplicity is the opposite of the depersonalization effected by the history of philosophy; it’s depersonalization through love rather than subjection. What one says comes from the depths of one’s ignorance, the depths of one’s own underdevelopment. One becomes a set of liberated singularities, words, names, fingernails, things, animals, little events: quite the reverse of a vedette.
Gilles Deleuze, from Negotiations, 1972-1990. Via.
The issue VII of VORN which celebrates ten years of existence is finally out and my work is gloriously inundating its pages. I am thrilled with the results ; the stock is gorgeous and the printing quality so rich - I love how dense and sharp the blacks turned out.
I am extremely thankful to Joachim Baldauf and Uta Grosenick for offering me such expanse to present my work.
In Berlin, you will find the magazine at Do You Read Me?
Top, photograph by Marcel Duchamp, Autour d’une table, 1917. Bottom, screen capture from the upcoming Prometheus 2 (or-whatever-this-will-be-titled), directed by Ridley Scott, 2016. Via.
For us, eating and being eaten belong to the terrible secret of love. We love only the person we can eat. The person we hate we ‘can’t swallow.’ That one makes us vomit. Even our friends are inedible. If we were asked to dig into our friend’s flesh we would be disgusted. The person we love we dream only of eating. That is, we slide down that razor’s edge of ambivalence. The story of torment itself is a very beautiful one. Because loving is wanting and being able to eat up and yet to stop at the boundary. And there, at the tiniest beat between springing and stopping, in rushes fear. The spring is already in mid-air. The heart stops. The heart takes off again. Everything in love is oriented towards this absorption. At the same time real love is a don’t-touch, yet still an almost-touching. Tact itself: a phantom touching. Eat me up, my love, or else I’m going to eat you up. Fear of eating, fear of the edible, fear on the part of the one of them who feels loved, desired, who wants to be loved, desired, who desires to be desired, who knows there is no greater proof of love than the other’s appetite, who is dying to be eaten up, who says or doesn’t say, but who signifies: I beg you, eat me up. Want me down to the marrow. And yet manage it so as to keep me alive. But I often turn about or compromise, because I know that you won’t eat me up, in the end, and I urge you: bite me. Sign my death with your teeth.
Hélène Cixous, The Love of the Wolf, 1998. Via.
Top, screen capture from Crash, directed by David Cronenberg, 1996. Bottom, photographs by Daniel Shea, Untitled, 2013.
My life, which seems so simple and monotonous, is really a complicated affair of cafés where they like me and cafés where they don’t, streets that are friendly, streets that aren’t, rooms where I might be happy, rooms where I shall never be, looking-glasses I look nice in, looking-glasses I don’t, dresses that will be lucky, dresses that won’t, and so on.
Jean Rhys, Good Morning, Midnight, 1939. Via.
And thinking of balconies.